Chapter 105: LYDIA

The day had started to darken when Lydia stepped out of that old house—with a closed umbrella in her hand, with a bag hanging on her shoulder, with her black dress fluttering in the night wind. Whoosh... The wind blew colder now—carrying the scent of earth and wet wood, the distinctive scent of an old village, of houses long uninhabited—and the sky above had turned dark blue, with several stars starting to appear one by one, small and distant, and a thin crescent moon hanging on the eastern horizon, with soft silver light. Lydia walked along the dirt road—slowly, with measured steps, with eyes staring straight ahead—and she didn’t look back. That old house—that old house had already disappeared around the bend, and Lydia didn’t want to see it again. Not now. Maybe never.

She walked past the old houses no longer inhabited—with dark windows, with tightly closed doors, with several trees growing in front yards—and she could hear crickets chirping back and forth—chirp... chirp...—and the sound of wind blowing through the leaves—rustle—and the sound of her own footsteps on the earth—tap... tap... tap... She walked past the closed shops—with padlocked iron doors, with faded signs, with several neon lights still on—flicker... flicker...—flickering like a failing heart—and she turned onto a wider road. That road—that road was already paved, though the asphalt was cracked in places, with several potholes already filled with rainwater—and on both sides, there were several large trees growing along the sidewalk, with branches hanging over the road, with dense leaves.

That bus stop—that bus stop was located at the end of the road, near the intersection. The building was small—just enough for four or five people—with a tin roof rusted in places, with a worn wooden bench, with a neon light on the ceiling that flickered—flicker... flicker...—and with a faded bus schedule board, with writing no longer legible. Lydia sat on that bench—slowly, carefully—and she placed her bag on her lap. She stared at the road—for a long time—and she waited. Time passed—slowly, as usual—and Lydia could feel the night air growing colder, seeping through her dress, touching her skin. She didn’t shiver. She just sat there—with her hands on her lap, with eyes staring at the road—and she waited.

The bus came—finally—from a direction she didn’t expect. Its headlights were dazzling—bright, white, with a wide beam—and its engine roared—vroom... vroom...—getting closer. The bus stopped in front of the stop—with a screeching brake sound—kreeeek—and its door opened with a hiss—wusssh. Lydia stood—slowly—and she stepped up into the bus. She passed the driver—an old man with graying hair at his temples, with a blue uniform wrinkled in places, with a practiced smile, with wrinkled hands on the steering wheel—and she stopped in front of him.

"Good evening," the driver said—his voice friendly, with a tone he had used thousands of times, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Where to?"

Lydia looked at him—for a long time. Then she smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "The night that never ends," she said.

The driver’s smile—that smile immediately disappeared. His face changed—from friendly to serious, from serious to—cold. His eyes—his previously tired eyes—were now sharp. He nodded—slowly, almost imperceptibly—and he closed the bus door. Wusssh. The bus immediately moved—vroom—without waiting for Lydia to sit down. Lydia walked to the very back seat—slowly, with a hand reaching for the seat back, with the bag still on her shoulder—and she sat down. That seat—that seat was old. Its fabric was faded. But still comfortable. Lydia placed her bag on her lap—and she stared at the window.

The bus sped along—at a consistent speed, not too fast, not too slow—and Lydia could feel the engine’s vibration beneath her feet. Outside—outside the scenery changed. The old houses in that village disappeared—replaced by wide open land, with tall grass, with several trees standing alone, with several stones already covered in moss—and then—forest. Tall pine trees—with branches touching each other, with dense leaves, with moonlight penetrating through their gaps—creating moving patterns above the road. Whoosh... The wind blew harder here—carrying the scent of pine sap and wet earth—and Lydia could hear the sound of leaves rustling—rustle—outside the bus. That driver—that driver didn’t say anything. He just focused on the road—with his hands on the steering wheel, with eyes staring straight ahead—and he didn’t look back once.

The bus passed a bend—slowly, carefully—and Lydia could see something in the distance. A building. A large building—with weathered concrete walls, with a flat roof, with several small windows tightly closed—and that building—that building didn’t belong in the middle of a forest. Too big. Too—modern. But Lydia didn’t care. She just sat there—with her hands on her lap, with eyes staring at that building—and she waited.

The bus stopped—with a screeching brake sound—kreeeek—and its door opened. Wusssh. That driver—that driver didn’t turn back. He just sat there—with his hands on the steering wheel, with eyes staring straight ahead—and he waited. Lydia stood—slowly—and she walked to the front of the bus. She stopped beside that driver—and she reached into her bag. She took out a coin—a gold coin, small, with a surface worn in places, with carvings no longer legible—and she placed it near the driver. Clack. That driver—that driver didn’t say anything. He just nodded—slowly—and he closed the bus door. Wusssh. The bus immediately moved—vroom—and it disappeared behind the trees, leaving Lydia alone in the middle of the forest.

Lydia stood there for a moment—with the bag on her shoulder, with her black dress fluttering in the wind—and she stared at the building in the distance. That building—that building was still the same. Weathered concrete walls. Flat roof. Small windows tightly closed. And in front of the door—in front of the door were two guards—in dark clothes, with weapons in their hands, with eyes watching. Lydia walked toward them—slowly, with measured steps, with her boots creaking on the earth—and she stopped in front of the door. She reached into her bag—slowly—and she took out a card. That card—that card was made of metal, with a worn surface, with the same carvings as the coin earlier. She showed that card to the guard—and that guard—that guard nodded—slowly—and he opened the door. Kreeeek. That door—that door was made of iron, with rusted hinges, with a scratched surface—and Lydia stepped inside.

Inside—inside that building—there was no excessive furniture. Its floor was made of concrete—with several scratches on its surface—and its walls—its walls were lined with dark wood panels, with several photos hanging there, with several statues standing in the corners of the room, with several weapons displayed on the walls—knives, swords, pistols, rifles—all maintained, all clean. Lydia passed all of it—slowly—and she reached a large door. That door—that door was made of old teak wood, with intricate carvings on its surface, with an iron handle already smooth from frequent use—and that door—that door was five times larger than an ordinary door. Lydia knocked on it—softly, with her knuckles—knock... knock... knock...—and she waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Then—that door opened. Kreeeek.

Inside—inside was a man. That man—that man was already old. His hair was completely white, combed back, with a few strands loose and falling onto his temples. His face—his face was full of wrinkles, with sagging skin, with tired eyes—but his eyes—his eyes were still sharp. Still clear. Still—alive. He sat in a wooden chair at the end of the room—with a table in front of him, with several papers arranged neatly, with a worn pen—and he looked at Lydia when she entered.

"Lydia," he said—his voice heavy, with a tone she couldn’t read. "Please sit down."

Lydia sat in the chair in front of that man—slowly—and she placed her bag on her lap. "I’ve completed my task," she said. "At that school. I’ve observed everything."

That man nodded—slowly. But he didn’t respond to that report. He instead asked something else. "Did you read the newspaper this morning?"

Lydia blinked. "Yes," she said. "I read it."

That man took the newspaper from the table—a folded newspaper, with several pages already marked—and he pushed it toward Lydia. "Seven unidentified bodies on the beach," he said. "An old house burned down near the forest. Do you know what this means?"

Lydia stared at that newspaper—for a long time. Then she lifted her head. "I don’t know."

That man smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "It means," he said, "there is someone—or something—moving out there. And we—" he paused for a moment, "—we need to find out who."

Lydia nodded—slowly. "What is my task?"

That man looked at her—for a long time. Then he leaned his back against the chair. "Find the mastermind behind all of this," he said. "Find out who killed those seven people. Find out who burned that house. And—" he paused for a moment, "—find out why."

Lydia nodded. "I understand."

She stood—slowly—and she took her bag. She walked to the door—with calm steps, with a hand still holding that newspaper—and she stopped at the threshold. She turned back—once.

That old man was still sitting in his chair—with his hands on his lap, with eyes looking at Lydia. "Lydia," he said. "You’re not the same as those outside. We are different. Because we—" he paused for a moment, "—are special. So don’t let yourself be influenced by the life outside."

Lydia didn’t say anything. She just nodded—slowly—and she stepped out. Kreeeek. That door closed behind her—slowly—and Lydia stood in the silent corridor, with the newspaper in her hand, with the bag on her shoulder, with her black dress still fluttering in the wind entering through the window gap. She stared at that newspaper—for a long time—and she read its headline once more. Seven Unidentified Bodies Found on the Beach. She folded that newspaper—slowly—and she put it in her bag. Then she walked along the corridor—slowly, with measured steps—and she didn’t look back. Not anymore.